Burning Curiousity (FOX TV SERIES 2013)
by bardvahalla
Summary: Ichabod, awkwardly living in modern times, must understand Katrina's past in order to release her from Moloch's captivity. And to do that he must go where Angels fear to tread. As Abbie and Ichabod investigate a series of burn victims, it becomes clear an ancient order is somehow involved in generating power for Moloch. NOTE! Revised to reflect CANON Episode 6 - No. 5th 2013
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

_"Love seeketh not itself to please, nor for itself hath any care, but for another gives its ease, and builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."_  
― William Blake, _Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience_

Ichabod kept reaching into his pocket seeking his clay pipe, but like so many things, it was no longer there. He needed to think. He wanted to fill a pipe and think, but smoking in the archives and many other areas was now forbidden. It was strangely uncivilized.

The archives were lonely in the evenings. Despite the vast resources and the detailed notes the previous sheriff had kept, there were gaps in the information Ichabod needed. For days he studied the many, and often contradictory, accounts or interpretations for the mythology of the Four Horsemen. He kept coming back to demonology, witchcraft and what Abbie termed 'supernatural' matters. It would take a lifetime to study and sort through it what was real and what was mere superstition. He decided to stick to substantiated facts and consult someone he could trust who understood otherworldly matters. But who?

Question one. Could he free his wife? Would such a venture require and deal with the devil? Is that why she – or her spirit -was being held hostage? Maybe Miss Jenny was correct. Already over but for the crying.

He needed Katrina. Her knowledge. Her skills. Oh, to talk with her again at length over a quiet hearth. Her mouth. Her warmth. Her soft...

Ichabod sighed. Stick to facts, he firmly told himself and gazed about the roomful of records with resignation.

With the archives as the war room, Lt. Mills set up an internet machine for him, explaining most data would be found there. She and Captain Irving had even arranged for one of those clever phone devices. He was uncertain how to work the damnable thing, and anticipating his reaction the lieutenant pressed a paper into his hand.

Her smirk was as unbecoming as the contents of the sheet itself. A portrait of an old lady looking at an Internet machine in confusion dominated the slick green paper.

"Understanding your cell phone or laptop. Free media workshop for senior citizens. Thursdays from 7 to 9 pm at the Warner Library..." he read aloud in distaste. "I am not that very aged, Miss Mills, nor completely dim. I need only time to become used to- (He waggled the phone) "-whatever this is."

"And yet you are technically close to 300 years old, so you qualify as a senior. Look Crane, I have no time to explain everything from steam engines to shoelaces to twerking. Y'all need to get up to speed. Focus on how to use your new cell phone first. This is how people communicate now. Pony express is not part of the police budget anymore. If Captain Irving or I need to contact you, you need to know what to do."

She was correct, of course, and so Ichabod agreed to go. Besides, he was fond of libraries and could do a bit of personal research without Miss Mills leaning over his shoulder trying to explain was a 'shift key' was. Apparently, a shift was no longer an undergarment for ladies to keep modest. Modesty no longer seemed in fashion.

The Lieutenant gestured at his cell phone. "My number and Capt. Irving's are programmed in." He peered at him curiously as she pulled out her own. "I am going to call your number now. The tiny flat box began to play a rousing orchestral military march. The front lit up with a very well painted, though unflattering, portrait of her. He grinned in delight. "Oh that is marvelous!"

"That is my specific ringtone. No one else's will sound like that." She smiled mischievously. "It's the Liberty Bell March. Seemed appropriate."

"I know not this music." He sensed that she was making a jest, and it irked him that he did not understand. She methodically explained setting passwords, showing him how to make a call and a text, then suddenly winced in pain.

"Are you well, Lieutenant?"

LATER:

Miss Mills pleaded illness and left before the dinner hour, complaining about the untimely arrival of some tiresome relation. She seemed reluctant to discuss this annoying Aunt Flo of hers, so he did not press the matter.

Relations. He idly wondered if his family line had completely died out. Not that it mattered. Most of his extended family had stayed behind in England before he threw his lot in with the Americans. The descendent of a few distant cousins might yet be out there, but to attempt any contact them would be pointless. It would have been different if he and Katrina had started a family, but – no. That would not be a good thing. His otherworldly enemies might take an unwholesome interest in his lineage. No. Better that he and Katrina had not been fruitful.

He distracted himself from such depressing thoughts by experimenting with the cell phone. He marvelled at the compass, the clock, the weather predictor, and the astonishingly accurate maps. A truly miraculous and practical tool. The paper flyer from the library beckoned him. The workshop took place in an hour or so. Ichabod took the strange, shiny key that Captain Irving had given him and locked the archives securely.

The Warner library closed promptly at 9 pm on Thursday, the librarian firmly told him and pointed out the direction to take. She smiled at his clothes. "Are you a re-enactor with the Hudson River Patriots, or something? I'm into Renaissance festivals myself." The tag on her vibrant outfit read, Myrna. He couldn't quite place her age. Her hands were winkled but her face was smooth and strangely tight. No wedding ring on her finger, though an indent suggested one had graced her finger once.

Uncertain what she meant, Ichabod summed up a vague and non-committal answer to her questions. "I am considering it. Thank you, Miss Myrna," he looked around the comforting ambiance of the library. Wooden tables. Creamy walls. Large windows. Tall shelves stuffed with more books than he dared hope. "Does this library have any books on the local history of witches in the Hudson River area. Perhaps the record of births or deaths of the convicted?"

Myrna the librarian pursed her full lips in thought. "It's all archived online now, but we have a few resources still kicking around. If you tell me exactly what you are looking for I can help set you in the right direction."

Ichabod summoned up his most charming smile. "Anything to do with Katrina Crane. She was reportedly locally burned as a witch in the year of our Lord 1782, but I have cause to doubt that."

"Sure thing." She scribbled the name down with an eager grin. "I'm on the case!"

Ichabod progressed to the meeting room, where a cluster of elderly people sat around the dark wood tables. Many were quite old, but very lively. Ichabod took heart. The master of computer workshop was a neat, stiff man with a belly that oozed over his belt. He introduced himself as Mr. Brant. Ichabod placed him about half the age of his students. Odd to see the young teaching the elders. It should be the other way round, he thought.

Brant spoke in low patronizing tones. "So, how about we all introduce ourselves and talk about what you specifically want to learn to do in this workshop?"

A thin, pale man with a long, grey ponytail stood with a bit of difficulty. His laptop sat on a table connected to the wall with a long white cord and he almost tripped over it. "I'm Randy. Looking to sync my laptop and my phone and back up my data to the cloud."

A pudgy, dark woman stood. "Amelia. Need some help installing basic free antivirus software, emailing my grandkid's pictures and setting up Skype so I can chat with my sister in Bermuda."

Short, greasy man with booming voice."Merv. Protocols for integrating hypertext on my family history docs."

Tiny crone in a furry hat. "Wanda. Want to know how to screen cap on my tablet."

Hunchbacked man in a rumpled shirt. "Anthony. Setting up conference calls on my iPhone."

Head spinning, Ichabod stood when he turn came and bowed slightly. "I am Mr. Crane. I am completely perplexed about these wonderful devices and ... do not understand a single thing any of you just said. Your help and assistance in... bringing me up to speed - would be very much appreciated." He held up his phone, glad to note a few others had the same ones emblazoned with a fruit as he did.

Mr Brant scowled at him. "This class is for seniors only, pal. And I, for one, do not appreciate you making fun of folks who are a bit behind with technology."

Ichabod bristled. "I assure you, sir, I do not jest. Truly, I am somewhat older than I look."

Brant narrowed his eyes. "I doubt it, buddy. Behave and you can stay for this class. After tonight you get your butt to a community college if you want to play at being a Luddite." Brant turned to the large screen and began to discuss anti-virus programs.

Dejected, Ichabod sat next to the crone in the furry hat. She patted his knee. "Never mind, sweetheart. I can help you. I was hopeless with iOS7 for weeks after I uploaded, but then I should know better than to be an early adapter."

Ichabod smiled at her with difficulty. Learning Latin had never been this difficult.

LATER

Myrna tapped on the door just before nine. Brant nodded genially at her then scowled at Ichabod, who had a cluster of elderly ladies around him, either posing for pictures or taking note of his cell number.

"Tell me more of this rule 34, Amelia." Ichabod walked towards the library entrance. Myrna waved him over before he could get an answer. He excused himself from the group of giggling ladies.

"Didn't take you long to form a fan club." Myrna drily noted.

""Ah yes. The ladies of the workshop are being so very helpful." Crane eyed a sheaf of papers in Myrna's hand. "Have you found something about Katrina Crane?"

"I printed off a few things for you. She's one of the sadder stories I've come across." Myrna rattled her keys as she handed the sheets to him. "Have a look, and come back if you need to dig deeper. Local history is what we do here."

Ichabod bowed slightly as he took the papers. "Thank you so much Miss Myrna. You are exceptional!"

She fluttered her eyes at him. "I know."

LATER:

Back in the archives (After a genial visit to a local pub at the workshop ladies' insistence) Ichabod read through the copies of documents Myrna had found.

Katrina's birth noted in the church register. The marriage to him. Same church. His last army payment. Newly widowed, she signed for his pay and belongings Copy of a condolence note from Washington. Her arrest documented in the Tarry Town magistrate's book, of 1782. Her conviction of witchcraft. Her death sentence. Hanging, _then_ burning.

The execution delayed because she ... plead her belly.

Ichabod gasped, reading the details of the delay with a growing horror. Katrina had been with child? He quickly did the math. They had lain together before he left for his last battle with the horseman. The date of her scheduled execution was within the expected time frame.

A child! He searched for further information. The child – his child -(sex and name unrecorded) had been claimed after the birth by Katrina's Van Tassel relations. Once no longer pregnant, her new execution date was announced.

A date was given. A place. But no other details.

Ichabod stared at his phone. Was there a way to contact a world between worlds? Was she dead? No. He refused to believe it. If he could live then so could she. If Death could be cheated then none of the Horseman had a hold over him. Their blood was mingled. His blood with Katrina's. His blood with the Horseman's.

Perhaps Katrina...

No. Ichabod knew he must such fears to himself.

NEXT MORNING:

"How did the workshop go" Lt. Mills asked as she handed him a pumpkin-scented coffee. "Try this coffee. It's total crack."

_Crack?_ "I learned much." Ichabod said, but did not elaborate. "I would continue these sessions, but Master Brant is unconvinced of my status as an elder."

"No shit?" She laughed lightly. "Well, you will need some kind of ID. I'll talk to the captain about ... arranging that."

"Yes, thank you." Ichabod settled down to peruse the dusty documents on local covens. He sought any names he recognized. Who had taught Katrina her craft? Were such teachings passed down only parent to child?

Two and a half lost centuries of history to understand. His ignorance burned at him. If his unnamed child had survived to adulthood - and many did not - had he or she married? Been fruitful? Did he yet have direct relations? Seven or eight generations had passed but if they existed the Horsemen would seek out his bloodline. They would know.

There was much to learn.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two –

_" who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and  
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,  
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes  
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy  
among the scholars of war, "_  
― Allan Ginsberg, HOWL

Ichabod stood by the window gazing at sheets of rain washing over glass. It was much colder at night. Soon rain would turn to snow. For now, a chill dankness seeped into the room, making his bones ache. He wiped at his eyes with the end of his jacket sleeve. The salt would leave a mark. He hands were stained with green, the bright fruity scent embedded within them.

He cherished his solitude to think on her. He needed to understand. Had she been killed? Had she fled with their child? If her body was not in that grave, where had she gone after the "execution"? So many questions he needed to ask, but such need faded in the late evenings. In the night, he simply wanted her presence, not her answers.

The roaring fire behind him crackled merrily in the fireplace. A good sound. Familiar. Reassuring. In this cabin, fire was a necessity. There was an oil heater, but Ichabod eschewed it. He wanted the comforting scent of woodsmoke. The rhythmic fall of the rain. The roughness of the wood floor. It was almost like being home, but for Katrina's absence.

If she had been present, he fancied that she would be mending, or spinning, or any number of practical things as he watched over the pages of a heavy book. Memories rose. She would brush her hair in the light of the fire, the faint scent of lemon balm wafting about her. Katrina was never still. Her hands and head were ever at some task. She wrote letters to distant family in her fair hand, or studied the plants of the new world - often trading knowledge with the local healing women. This bark for coughs, that root for pain, this leaf for cleansing the blood. To be held in a timeless prison with no purpose but to wait on a demon's whim would be torture.

Her voice filled him. _"Stay alive!"_

Alive meant warmth, shelter and food. He had these things. What he needed was time. Time to think and plan ahead, not just react to the sudden and diverse attacks these demons kept throwing at him and Lt. Mills.

In the first days after he took up residence at the cabin, Ichabod found a saw, an axe and a splitter then set to work. As the log pile grew tall with maple, oak, birch and chestnut, Ichabod fancied Katrina watching him with a sweet smile from the door. In darker moments he saw his father's spirit, sneering at his son's manual labor.

_"You once had servants for that, boy_." A gravelly voice. Rough, and cutting. _"You were meant for better."_

The blade of the axe angled deep into the wood as he swung and cut. "Yes, father. Once I was "noble". Now I am trying to save the world. What of it?"

_"I never should have bought you that commission."_

"I gladly accepted to get away from you. Besides, didn't the army make a man of me as you hoped?"

_"Ungrateful traitor. You should have died at birth instead of your brother."_

"I did die. Now I am alive again. Funny that."

His father's memory huffed at him. "_I will never understand you."_

"That is because you never tried to, dear Pater."

It began to rain. He found a few dying shoots of Lemon Balm near the cabin's wood pile, plucked them and crushed the half-dead leaves in his hands, impregnating his fingers with their citrusy scent. Woodsmoke and lemon. The mingled odors were like a spell he used to conjure her memory.

Ichabod replaced the tools and carried a load of dried wood into the cabin, leaving his father's malignant memory in the dank forest.

LIBRARY:

Myrna shook her head at him. "I can't find any further information about her, or the child. She just disappears. Even the Van Tassels record just vanishes after the War of 1812."

Ichabod felt disheartened. "Thank you for trying, Miss Myrna." He must try another line of inquiry. Only a week had passed but much had happened. He was being foolhardy to investigate such things without being able to ascertain the veracity of the information himself. Miss Myrna did not seem to have an alliance to the Hessian, but who was to say? "Perhaps you could assist me with a recommendation for... getting up to speed on cleverphones. Alas, I do not meet Mr. Brant's age requirements. I was curious about the community colleges. Do they also offer history courses?"

Myrna smirked as she gathered up some brochures on local colleges. "Save your money and just ask the kids who work the mall's cell kiosks about the damn phones. And yes, there are a few good local history teachers. I know one who tutors on the side. He's a re-enactor too, so you ought to get on quite well." She scribbled down a name – Henry Dyck. Ichabod thanked her and pocketed the note.

ARCHIVES:

The Lieutenant eyed the name with a raised eyebrow.

"Look Crane, remember what Jenny warned us about. We have no idea who the good guys and the bad guys are in this town. I can run this guy's name but even if it comes up clean, he might still be a Hessian spy or the wicked witch's snitch. We have to be very careful about who we trust in this town, and for history cramming you should keep your searches to the internet."

Ichabod bowed deferentially. "You are quite right. I shall use the internet machine for general knowledge and ask you to investigate any local source of lore."

"The devil is in the details, Crane." She stifled a yawn and rubbed her eyes. "We need a plan of attack. To get that we need to see the big picture. Where's the money?"

"Money?" Ichabod asked, pulling a dollar bill from his pocket and gazed at Washington's face. On the back was a pyramid and above that, the Eye of Providence, gazing at him radiantly.

"I meant why does this demon, Moloch, want to set the Apocalypse in motion? What does he get out of it? What do his followers get out of it? What's in it for them? Power? Control? More twitter followers? What?"

"Big picture," murmured Ichabod, "and within that, the little picture - the all-seeing Eye, the Grand Architect judging one's words and deeds." He held out the bill indicting the Eye.

"Not this abracadabra shit again," Miss Mills said. "The Eye in the Pyramid? Are you talking Illuminati or Masonic rituals?"

"Ah, the Masons!" Ichabod sighed heavily. His father had pushed him in that direction. He refused. He had joined only after Washington and Franklin convinced him. It had been over 200 years. Who knew what the lodges had become now. He picked his words carefully. "The Masons have passed down their esoteric knowledge for centuries. I assume they still do."

"Sure," Abbie shrugged, "if riding in small cars is esoteric knowledge. I can vouch that our local chapter of Shriner's are the biggest party animals in town."

"Explain."

"I want to go home. You can read about it all here." Abbie sighed and called up "Shiners" on Wikipedia. Ichabod scanned the copy over her shoulder, committing it to memory. "So, in modern times the Masonic lodges raise money for children's hospitals?"

Yes, Abbie said, stifling another yawn as she got up to leave. "They raised over a million bucks last year for the burn unit in-"

"Burn unit?"

Abbie and Ichabod gazed at each other in sudden understanding. Abbie smiled. "Shiners support hospital burn units for children all over the USA. And our horned buddy ..."

"Moloch requires children to be burned as a sacrifice to him." Ichabod finished.

Abbie expelled a noisy breath. "So are the Shiners good guys or bad guys?"

"I suspect the Masons fight on the side of good, but we must be certain. We must carefully look into the matter." Ichabod felt pleased at their progress and sat before the computer, handling the mouse with unease. "I think we may be beginning to understand our enemy, Miss Mills."

THE CABIN:

Lemon balm leaves hung drying next to the stone fireplace. It grew in abundance around the cabin and Ichabod took it as a good omen. He flicked the lighter and set the kindling aflame. He stared down at the lighter. Pure science had produced this tiny miracle, but two centuries ago he might have been denounced as a witch for possessing it. Knowledge was power. He had heard that often enough at Oxford.

Witches. Demons. Spirits. Biblical prophecy. How did you sift facts from fancy in such matters? He had studied History, not semantics nor superstition.

He stared at the fire. One burned wood to keep warm. One roasted meat to eat to purify any putrid humours that thrived in the flesh. One burned candles for light. Why burn children? Or witches for that matter?

A horrible thought entered his brain and refused to leave.

**_To be continued._**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

_"First MOLOCH, horrid King besmear'd with blood  
Of human sacrifice, and parents tears,  
Though, for the noyse of Drums and Timbrels loud,  
Their children's cries unheard that passed through fire  
To his grim Idol."_

- Paradise Lost (Milton)

Katrina ran down the snowy path to the lake, her lighthearted laughter ripping at his heart. He pursued but she remained just out of reach, his fingertips only just grazing her loose hair as she danced away from him.

The moon rose over the edge of the lake, fat and yellow like the Monticello apples Thomas Jefferson once sent them in a large twig basket, accompanied by a scrawled note and a skinny slave. "Save the seeds and plant your own damned orchard. T.J."

Ichabod ran after her, his voice catching in his chest. "Katrina wait!"

On she ran, her light step left no trail in the snow. He slowed to catch his breath, uncertain where his wife had disappeared to. A light tinkle of laughter. A distant flash of red hair in golden moonlight. The scent of woodsmoke grew stronger.

"Kat!?"

He coughed and spat, loosening his sweaty shirt to cool himself. He coughed again and could not stop hacking. He fell to his knees. He could not breathe. Kat leaned out from behind a tree. Her face deathly pale. Her fingers were long and pointed. Her eyes were hollow and lifeless, darker than a night sky. She reminded him of someone. Something. A demon, dark and cruel.

"Sleep, Ichabod. Just sleep and come to me." It was her voice, but it held no warmth. This vision was not Katrina. Something was wrong.

Crane struggled to breathe. The soft snow felt so hot. How could that be?

"Crane!"

A voice calling his name. Not Katrina. Someone else. He knew this voice.

"CRANE!"

A hand smacked his face. It hurt. He coughed and retched, a deep, racking spasm. Where was Katrina? She was gone again. The moon was gone. The snow was gone. All but the smoke.

"Crane! Wake up, dammit! I can't lift your bony British ass!"

He opened his eyes. Lt. Mills loomed over him in a grey mist, her hand raised to strike him again. He gagged and barely managed to sit up. The bedroom was hot and close, filled with grey smoke. She hauled him to his feet and helped him stagger over to the open window. Ichabod leaned on the sill, gasping lungfuls of cold, clean air. Abbie ran around, opening more windows to clear the cabin.

He shivered violently in the dank cold. Abbie returned with a mug of water. He staggered back to the bed, and gulped the water down, desperate to both clear away the acrid taste and the nightmare memory of Katrina's unnatural hollow eyes.

"Better?" she asked.

"Yes." Ichabod croaked.

"Good." She took the mug from his trembling hand, and pointedly stared at the ceiling. "And Crane, from now on you might want to consider sleeping in your underwear or something."

Ichabod looked down as his nakedness and reflexively covered himself with the sheet.

"Ah." He looked around for his clothes, which were just out of reach on a chair. She tossed him the shirt and britches, but refrained from handling his underthings, which were, admittedly, worse for wear and why he had removed them to sleep.

An old habit. He slept clothed if in the field, or bare if at home. Despite the security of the cabin, he was still at war. He should sleep in his shirt and britches and be ready to move out in a moment.

"I brought breakfast." The Lieutenant retreated to the door. "Get dressed while I... go and ... not be here while you..." She bit a lower lip, as if to prevent any further comment.

Ichabod slowly dressed after she left the room, still struggling to breathe normally. Had it been an assassination attempt by their enemies? Hessian allies? Had Moloch himself tried to kill him with a smoldering fire?

He pulled out a drawer with the new undergarments she had bought for him. This time the plastic container was softer, and easy to breech. It had writing on it. Hanes boxer briefs. Black. Men's medium. Package of six. He inspected the waistband and the front access passage with appreciation. He decided he liked elastic, but was still undecided about plastic.

The culprit, as it turned out, was not a demon, but a furious grey squirrel which had begun to build a winter nest in the chimney. Ichabod remembered seeing squirrel droppings in the woodpile. He must have disturbed the creature while stacking the logs and it had sought a safer place to spend the winter.

It would be an ignominious demise, would it not?" Ichabod growled over a cup of strong coffee, "To die at the hands of a small rodent after so many many battles with men and demons."

She took a bite of a pumpkin tart. Lt. Mills had brought food again (Obviously she still did not trusting him to heat anything in a microwave after his last attempt) and found the cabin thick with smoke, Ichabod naked and half-senseless on the bed.

"The Horseman would have laughed his head off if a tree rat did what he couldn't."

"Very likely." Ichabod wheezed. It still hurt to talk. "If he still had his head."

She clambered up onto the roof in socked feet and extracted the nest from the flue. 'Take the day off," she insisted afterwards, as she pulled her boots back on. "I'm going to look into local children's deaths in suspicious house fires, burn victim records and look for patterns. I'll drop by later."

"I may go hunting." Ichabod replied, with a dark glance at the indignant squirrel chattering at them from a nearby tree.

Ichabod hung the bed sheets and the vibrant coverlet on a line to rid them of the smoky smell. He marveled again at the impossibly soft blanket. Abbie told him it was microfiber, the same wretched plastic he despised, only recycled and spun into a very light and lovely soft fabric. He had gone to bed the night before, stripped and pulled the blanket over his skin. Light as feathers, he thought. Soft as fur. Like Katrina's warm flesh.

In the night he embraced this false softness, wrapped round a pillow. So desperately, so deeply wanting her next to him, he would lie in the dark recalling and longing for the quiet nights when they whispered and teased each other until sleep, or desire, overtook them. Those nights had been heaven on earth. Free of England. Free from his father's reach. Free to love whom he chose. Such things were worth fighting for.

For Ichabod, hell was back in England, a glowering beastly father bearing scruffy jowls and a tongue sharper than a well honed blade. A booming voice telling him how to ride, who to court, what to think and duty duty duty until he felt his ears would bleed. Oxford provided a blessed escape, but it had not been nearly far enough from his father's influence.

Only the Colonies had provided that.

As he set snares for rabbit and squirrel, he recalled a terse letter that he received from his father. It arrived in the colonies after his marriage to Katrina but before he joined the American cause. Katrina's lineage – even with her English mother - had not met with his father's approval Lord Crane was furious about the marriage. As first born in a long line of English nobles, Ichabod should have known better than to drag the bloodline down with some grasping commoner. He burned the letter after he read it and sent no reply.

He received another letter from his father after he officially resigned his commission and threw his lot in with Washington. Ichabod didn't bother to break the heavy red wax seal and read it. He tossed the envelope in the fire, knowing full well once he had read the unrestrained, rambling vitriolic poison of his father's bitter disappointment that it could not be forgotten. He watched the red wax melt, hiss and flow like burning blood over the embers.

He was dead to his father. He was free.

Katrina never asked about his family. She knew that there was no going back for him. As he set the last snare, he wondered again about the fate of his unknown child, and the Cranes back in England. Had the estate gone to one of his corpulent or repugnant grasping male cousins? Had whoever inherited dutifully procreated enough spotty but honorable heirs and spares enough to keep the Crane name alive? Did it matter? He decided not.

Yet he would continue to seek the truth of his child's fate. He must know if his and Katrina's bloodline yet lived. After he been buried, and Katrina condemned, who would have adopted their child knowing it would have to be kept safe from demonic forces? He could only name a few who might.

He heard a sound. Distance and careful footsteps. Crane did not immediately react. He stood slowly, carefully replacing the spool of fishing line he was using for the snares in his coat pocket and positioned himself behind a large maple. Through the trees he saw Morales creeping up the dirt road, looking at the cabin with a scowl. He was not in uniform.

"She is not here." Ichabod said clearly. Luke Morales whirled, his hand automatically reaching for his gun, though he did not draw it. Ichabod raised his hands and ambled through the bush towards him, dodging branches. "Or is it me you seek?"

"Sabbatical, my ass." Morales lips curled into a sneer. "I still say your story is full of shit."

"Indeed?" Ichabod brushed dirt from his hands. "Your captain is satisfied with my credentials. Take the matter up with him."

Morales expression revealed he had already done so and not received the answer he wished. Crane stared benignly at Morales until the young officer dropped his gaze. Ichabod sighed. This wasn't about his credentials. This was about Lt. Mills. It was up to her to encourage his courtship or not. Still, as a Witness, would she want to draw anyone else she cared for into this fight? Jenny was enough.

It was not in Ichabod's nature to interfere in other people domestic matters, but he could at least set this fellow's concern to rest on one point. "Lt. Mills is helping me find my wife, Det. Morales. There is a connection to the case we are working on." Ichabod simply stated the truth, but did not elaborate any more than that. The two men stood in the forest, each assessing the other, until the squeals of a struggling squirrel broke the moment.

"Ah!" Ichabod clapped his hands together in delight. "Dinner!"

Morales watched in morbid fascination as Ichabod skinned and gutting the squirrel.

You are seriously going to eat that?" Morales swallowed with a pained expression, "Look, I will drive you to a burger joint myself."

Ichabod snicked off the tail with his hunting knife and put them in his pocket with the fishing line. "I realize there's not enough meat for two, but you are welcome to join me. I can roast some apples and cheese as well cook this fine fellow." He held up the scrawny skinned rodent with a grin. "Come, let us dine together."

"Dude, no. Seriously. What if that thing has rabies? No way. Not eating squirrel." Morales shook his head. "I don't even like handling raw steak."

"I do also have a bottle of fine Bordeaux French wine and some rather good brandy."

Morales considered. "Okay, but squirrel is not happening."

"More for me." Ichabod said cheerfully.

Thankfully, Morales was a chess player, and after Ichabod cooked and devoured the squirrel, they set up the chess board and played several games over wine until evening arrived. After wine, Morales was practically amiable until Abbie suddenly entered the cabin without knocking.

"I hope you've got some clothes on, Crane," she called loudly as she deposited a heavy silver container on the table. " 'Cause this lasagna is hotter than a two dollar pistol."

"Oh dear," Ichabod's fingers held a knight midair, about to place Morales king in check.

Morales blinked at Crane then turned and stared at his ex.

Lt. Mills went to lick tomato sauce off her thumb, spotted Luke and Ichabod in the corner, and stopped. "Well, this is awkward," she finally managed.

Luke turned back to Crane, an inscrutable expression on his face "Just how hard is she trying to help you find your wife?"

Before Ichabod could think of a sensible reply, Captain Frank Irving entered the still open door and bestowed a cold glare on Morales. "What are you doing here, detective?"

"Chess!" Ichabod answered heartily. He didn't need any more enemies than he already had. "And a lovely roast squirrel, although it wasn't nearly enough to sustain us both so whatever that heavenly scent is so very welcome. What is this lasagne exactly?"

Irving looked pointedly at his wristwatch. "You are on duty in the morning, aren't you Morales?"

Yes, sir." Morales stood and extended his hand to his host. "Thanks for the game, Crane." The young detective's face remained inscrutable.

Ichabod shook his hand and inclined his head at him. "My pleasure."

Morales left without another word, though he shot a quick, questioning glance at Abbie before shutting the door behind him. Frank Irving stood by the window until he was certain that Morales was well out of earshot. "I might have to transfer his ass," the captain finally said.

"I don't understand all this talk of asses." Ichabod complained. "They are as rare are horses these days. Not my favorite animal by any means but how does transferring Morales' livestock serve our purpose?"

"Crane, shut up." Irving said, "We came across some information about a number of burn victims over the past few decades. We need to talk."

**_To be continued_**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four

_Midway upon the journey of our life_

_I found myself within a forest dark,_

_For the straightforward pathway had been lost_

_Inferno_ -Dante

THE CABIN

Ichabod could still detect Lt. Mill's perfume in the air. So unlike Katrina's subtle scent. Much more complicated, he decided. But then, he knew much less about women than he had presumed. He had regarded only men to be warriors, but his demure wife had been secretly battling an ancient otherworldly evil. Now he was planning strategy with the Mills sisters. One an officer of the law and the other a freedom fighter. So strange. Himself and two young ladies against the same dark forces that held his wife's spirit captive.

His meetings, first with Capt. Irving, and then alone with Miss Mills, disbanded just before midnight. Crane wrangled with a head full of random thoughts he sought to put into some kind of order. Over the past weeks, he and Lt. Mill's had tried to 'wrap their heads', as she put it, around the bigger picture, but with little progress.

144,000 souls in Sleepy Hollow. Two covens – ancient orders, Katrina said - aligned with a myriad of forces, both good and evil. In what seemed a short space of time Ichabod had been slain upon a battlefield, mingled his blood with that of Death himself, returned to life over two centuries later, only to face the same hellish Hessian along with his cultish agents, with the enchanting prospect of facing a host of ancient Apocalyptical horsemen all controlled by an ancient evil in a time and place he was only barely beginning to comprehend.

Conquest/Plague. War. Famine. Death. Spritely chaps indeed.

He recalled their first battles. The pale, judging Sandman of Mohawk legend, from the shadowy world between worlds; a reborn witch of great vengefulness; ReinHessien agents bent on releasing 72 demons and Roanoke's timeless, sinister plague. And this was only the beginning.

What fun to look forward to, he thought grimly. Seven years of relentlessness struggle for an uncertain outcome while attempting to free his beloved Katrina from her enslavement to the demon Moloch.

He gritted his teeth, recalling the Hessian agent's words before the man bit down on the poison capsule. _"He wants you to understand."_ Understand what exactly? Moloch, this ancient thing, who fed on child sacrifice or the burnt flesh of innocents. How many blameless people had been burned as witches throughout Europe in the distant centuries past in the New World and Europe? Tens of thousands? Hundreds of thousands? Sacrificed to what end? To what purpose? What did a demon gain from destroying everything?

Ichabod glared ruefully at the empty wine bottle. Earlier, Frank Irving placed strange plastic cards into Crane's hand. "Your ID and a bank card where your consultation fees will be direct deposited. I write the checks, so that means that you are under my direct command, Crane. You and the lieutenant report to me and only me about anything you learn about the decapitations and this cult that piano teacher was involved in. Understand?"

"I do." Ichabod inclined his head and added respectfully, "Sir."

For a second time that evening, Ichabod dined.

"I started with deliberate executions by burning." Lt. Mills reported as she dished up a plate of food. "It's interesting that most witches in Salem were hanged, or pressed, but not burned. But there were witch burnings in Sleepy Hollow from 1775 right up into the early 1800's." She raised an eyebrow at Ichabod. "And you are going to love this. The burnings were not widely reported. I really had to dig for any details. There's almost nothing about it on the internet. It was all kept on the QT or spun as hostile raids on folks during the wars."

"Curious, indeed," agreed Crane.

Irvine sat quietly eating, allowing Lt. Mills give her report uninterrupted. Crane offered wine, but the captain shook his head. 'On duty."

"Of course, there is nothing recently that would qualify as a witch burning, but communities around Sleepy Hollow _do_ have way more deaths by accidental fire than the statistical norm. House fires, campers in the woods falling into fire pits, kids messing around with fireworks, mass injuries in industrial accidents. The Masons," she added, "support several burn units for children, and one of the best is in Valhalla, only a short drive from here."

Valhalla? Crane took a breath. The Norse heaven for warriors slain in battle? Yet another mythological thread entwined in their otherworldly battle? "

"So this is where Capt. Irving comes in."

Ichabod turned to meet Frank's steady gaze, already having deduced the reason for his presence. "Which Masonic lodge are you affiliated with?"

Frank Irving nearly smiled. "I am a member of a special division of Olgethorpe's founding. Solomon's oldest lodge, stationed here in New York state."

Ichabod had detected the unspoken question from Irving the first time they had shaken hands. A subtle variation on the hand signal to which he resisted giving the correct response. Until he determined whom he could trust, he best keep his Masonic affiliations to himself.

"Washington was a Master Mason, affiliated with the American Union Military Lodge." Ichabod said, affecting a puzzled look.

This time Irving smiled slightly, "Some of them work in tandem with certain dedicated lodges of Solomon. Anything you or the lieutenant learn about the Masons, you talk to me about. Me and me only."

"Is that not questionable?" Ichabod protested passionately. "I must ask you to clarify whether your allegiance is to the truth or to your Masonic Brethren!"

"You are going to have to trust me, Crane. I've been square with you so far, right?"

"That is true." Crane admitted.

"Look, Crane, I want to know if anyone in the lodges is a cult member more than you can imagine. And I am in a position to do something about it."

Crane sighed. His instincts told him Irving was trustworthy, but he must be sure. He met the captain's eye for a long moment before acquiescing. "Very well."

"Sir? A question."The Lieutenant picked at her lasagna. "Didn't these Masonic lodges split apart after the revolution? British Masons must have set up new lodges in Canada after the war while American Masons stayed. But if this Moloch cult has been going strong for centuries, then how do we know which Masons to trust? Some must have stayed behind to… keep the fires burning."

"We don't know who to trust." Irving sighed.

"So we won't know who's involved until they tip their hand." She tossed her fork down.

"Just talk to me first, Lt. Mills." Frank glared at her. "That is a direct order."

"Dammit sir, I hate being reactive. I want to bust these guys _before_ they stir shit up."

"Masons are not petty thieves. They are judges. Senators. _Presidents_." Irving pushed his plate away. "You will need hard evidence for a conspiracy theory, Lt. Mills. _I_ want hard evidence." Irving regarded them both with an unapologetic stare. "Lieutenant, if you think that local burn victims are going to lead us in the right direction, then follow that thread and let's see what you find. Build the case same as you would for the mob or a drug cartel. Start with small fish. They lead to big fish." With that, Frank Irving stood to leave. He looked around the cabin with thinly disguised annoyance. "I am humoring you both because you get results. Keep getting results and you can keep on doing your thing. I have my own superiors to answer to, so to be plain, I will not back you up on the mere word of a man who claims he hung with Washington. We clear?"

"Crystal," she said.

"No one of my acquaintance was hung like a thief!" Ichabod bristled. "That's absurd!"

"You can stop being chummy with Morales, Crane." Lt. Mills said curtly as soon as Capt. Irving left. "I will deal with him myself."

"But Det. Morales is such delightful company. I can see why you both suit each other!" Ichabod picked up a pawn from the floor. Chess. A game of war, and one young Morales had not yet mastered.

"Shut the hell up, Crane."

Ichabod pressed the point. "So you will not reestablish your… previous courtship?"

"None of your damn business."

Oh dear. The lieutenant had inflected her last remark with her "don't mess with me or I will cut you" voice. Crane bowed. "Then just tell me what you found out about the burn victims that you did not want Capt Irving to know just yet." He felt relieved that he was not the only one withholding information from the Captain.

Lt. Mills sighed. "Most were standard cases. Accidents or house fires with no connection, but I found a few that look… creepy. So far I've found about 4-6 deaths every year since the department kept digital records. Cases that maybe connected to the financial donors to the Shiner burn units. There's also a local coroner that is almost always assigned to these questionable burned bodies."

"Any other pattern to the victims?"

"Still looking."

"Alas, the captain wants hard evidence so he can prosecute these avid followers of Moloch." Crane rubbed his tired eyes. "but Lieutenant, how does one incarcerate a demon, a spirit or Death himself. How?"

"Your wife and her friends knew how to contain them," she shot back. "Solomon did. It can be done. We are witnesses and we have power, remember?"

She was correct. Again. "Touché."

"So let's start at the beginning. The Masons were once Templar Knights, right?"

"Yes," Crane sipped the last of his wine. He was no expert, but it was obvious Washington's Masonic connections were going to be important. He joined the Masons later in life, and had only just begun the most basic levels of indoctrination. Looking back it seemed obvious that Washington had kept him somewhat in the dark on several matters. He reluctantly decided that he must now do the same with Lt. Mills.

"Lieutenant, as I understand it, not all masons are indoctrinated into the Great Mysteries. There is a lengthy winnowing process and to reach such levels of esoteric Masonic knowledge can take a lifetime."

"Washington was a famous mason." She tilted her head at Crane. "But, you never joined. Why?"

"I do not give my allegiance lightly." Crane evaded the question and chose his words carefully as he toyed with the now empty wine glass. "If God gave me free will, why should I shackle it to any other man's whim or society, however honorable he, or it, might seem."

"Yet you joined Washington's army and became a traitor to England."

"I fought for what I believed was right, moral and just. I still do. If Washington had strayed from the path of justice, I would cease to follow him and would have sought better company."

"So, we'll add Masonic lore to our list of things to understand." Lt. Mills said, "Right now, this Horseman and his crew are seeking us out. They have thrown a lot at us in a short period of time. Seeing what we can take, testing our strength, trying to find our weak spots."

Crane considered this. "Perhaps we ought to provide them with a weakness. Draw them out in a feint."

"Great." The lieutenant ungracefully sucked the last drops from the wine bottle. "Any idea how?"

After dining, they poured over Washington's map and other items from Sheriff Corbin's files, puzzling over the markings and clipping, trying to make sense of it all. Far more strange happenings than just the odd burn victim. Disappearances. Violent slayings. All manner of peculiarities. "We need Jenny to help us." Abbie cracked her back with a yawn. "She collected most of Corbin's intel."

"You have made progress in securing her release?"

"Yes." Abbie nodded and tossed the map aside. "But we are no closer to understanding any of this than Corbin was. I still do not get why this Last Days fight needs to be here!" Abbie complained. "Why Sleepy Hollow? Why not Punkydoodles Corners or anywhere else?"

It was a good question, Ichabod realized. Why Sleepy Hollow? What was here? If the enemy had picked this place as a battle ground, there must be some strategic advantage. Some ancient reason._"So in war, the way is to avoid what is strong, and_ _strike at what is weak"_ Ichabod recalled from _The Art of War_. He plucked up a discarded, gnawed squirrel femur and replaced it on his plate. "Are we anywhere near a leyline?"

Abbie sighed. "What the hell is a leyline?"

After she left, Crane studied the ancient map again until he could recall each minute detail in an instant. He hid the map away in the secret wall, then yawned and stretched. He tossed the plate of squirrel bones onto the fire and carefully replaced the chess game in the bookshelf cabinet.

He paused to peruse the various tomes Sheriff Corbin had collected. Old friends like Paradise Lost, The Divine Comedy and The Art of War. He knew them all intimately. There were many new books to become acquainted with. William Blake's complete works. Howl. Chicken Soup for the Soul. Herman.

Bones hissed on the fire, the marrow creating a charred, meaty scent.

Tomorrow was Sunday. Perhaps he should attend service. If he was in a Holy war, then he should pray. It was a exercise he usually eschewed, due to a lack of results. How many times as a boy had he prayed for his father's demise, to no avail, No. He rarely prayed, except for when social occasions warranted it. Washington certainly insisted upon calling for divine guidance. It seemed he had reason to.

Ichabod banked the fire for the night, then removed his jacket and trousers and laid them over the edge of the bedpost for quick recovery. He relieved himself in the water closet, careful to put the seat down and flush, as the lieutenant had instructed him in that distinct "just do NOT argue with me on this" tone of hers.

It was no longer socially acceptable to piss against a handy tree or shrub, which Ichabod found puzzling. So many things seemed unduly complicated. He was, however, extraordinarily pleased with the 3-ply tissue she introduced to him. Now that was a truly civilized invention. And one he was relieved that machines were not involved with."

Yawning, Crane crawled under the bedclothes wearing a plain t-shirt and his snug new undergarments. He held the soft blanket close, imaging Katrina's soft hair. He must find a way to free her. Only she could be trusted. Only she would know how to contain the forces of Hell.

His brain tipped over into the first stages of sleep, then slipped into a waking dream

_In his dreams the eagle spirit of Katrina returned. It sat on the headstone in the churchyard. _

_'Here lieth the duft of Katrina Crane. Burned for witchcraft, Died 1782.'_

_The eagle pecked at the headstone. Ichabod regarded it, aware he was dreaming and still thinking critically. What more was there to learn? The Hessian's head had been moved to a new location. Katrina's dust had never been here. What further significance could there be?_

_The bird squawked at him and repeatedly pecked at the Eye in the Pyramid. The radiating Eye. The all-seeing Eye of God. Washington's money. Katrina's gravestone. A message he, and others, were meant to see. _

When he woke at dawn, Ichabod dressed, breakfasted on cold lasagna and briskly quick marched down the road to the Catholic cemetery. He stood panting before Katrina's gravestone in the growing light of dawn, facing the relief of the Eye of Providence. He turned and faced in which the direction the eye stared. Due north, according to his phone compass. He almost laughed. Two birds. One stone.

Ichabod decided to go to archives and use the old maps there to see what lay directly north of the stone. Behind him the church bell began to ring out for early service. He paused, looking towards the main entrance of the Church. Not yet. He would stop to pray, he decided, and light a candle for Katrina and his unknown child.

A shadow moved over him. A bird? He looked up, expecting to see Katrina's eagle, but the monster that loomed over him was no creature he had ever seen before. Leathery, algae-green wings flapped like ship sails in a sudden wind. Two massive, scaled and clawed haunches rippled tautly. Coal-black, glistening eyes peered unblinking at him as it roared at him with hellishly foul, reeking breath. Crane lurched back as it snapped at him with narrow, toothy jaws that just barely missed his throat.

He stumbled over a plaque set in the ground, and fell heavily, smashing his left elbow. One of the creature's clawed feet kicked at Katrina's headstone, it flew across the cemetery and landed heavily somewhere out of his range of vision. The green dragon roared, drowning out the peeling church bells, then lunged for Crane again.

This time, the razor sharp teeth got a grip.

_To be continued._


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

_"Grace was in all her steps,  
heaven in her eye,  
in every gesture dignity and love."  
_**― John Milton, ****_Paradise Lost_**

THE CHURCHYARD

The creature appeared to be a green dragon, thrice the size of a well-grown horse. It clamped onto the heel of Crane's boot and began to drag him toward an open grave. Ichabod flailed about with his good arm, trying to seize hold of something, anything, to gain traction. He grasped at an iron rail protecting a small tomb. His fingers cracked as the dragon shook him like a dog toying with a bone. His smashed elbow screamed. His clinging fingers broke. His grip failed. With a roar, the hellish creature slipped into the dug grave pulling a screaming Ichabod down with him.

For a horrible moment the world went very dark and very cold. There was an overpowering scent of freshly dug earth, mingled with a foul sulfuric scent. The dragon released his boot, then proceeded to pace steadily around him. If he moved in any direction, the dragon leapt to block his escape.

Broken fingers throbbing in agony, Ichabod looked around frantically, seeking to gain his bearings. He did not know this place. Rough, black shiny rocks littered the scorched earth. Coal. An empty desert stretched off endlessly around him. Above him he saw three massive roots going off in ceaselessly in three directions. Above the roots, blocking a grey sky, was a massive, writhing green shadow. It was rather like looking up into the leaves of a colossal uprooted tree. One of the roots was ragged and ripped almost entirely though the middle, as if something had gnawed through it.

He stood unsteadily, forcing his foot back into the remains of his mangled boot. The dragon, or whatever it was, hissed and paced around him, but did not strike. Reflectively, he checked his jacket pockets with his good hand. He still had the sacrificial knife he claimed from the church when he battled the Reinhessiens, the spool of fishing line and the grey squirrel's tail. Marvelous, he thought. Before he could drop the tail and reach for the knife, the dragon lurched forward, sniffed frantically at it like a dog. Ichabod gasped as the monster reared up and roared in rage.

"Nidhooooogg!"

He would die. Katrina was lost. Miss Mill's would have to face the Horseman alone. It was not just. It was not right! "God help me," Crane whispered, his knees weakening. His gut told him to run. His reason told him there was no place to go.

In his fist, the squirrel tail suddenly took on a life of its own, writhing and twisting, a blur of grayness. Ichabod flung it toward the monster and stepped back. The grey blur reformed into a very large, chattering squirrel, which immediately set upon the dragon, biting and harassing as the beast continued to roar indignantly. The furious squirrel gave the dragon a deep, ripping tear on one of its thin ears. The monster finally shook the rodent off, and fled bleeding into the endless wastelands, howling in rage.

Stunned, Ichabod regarded the squirrel, which about the size of a large mastiff. The rodent returned his gaze unblinking. It was eerily quiet as they continued to stare at each other in silence. Uncertain how else to proceed, Ichabod finally bowed awkwardly and thanked the squirrel for his assistance. The large rodent snorted rudely and chattered something Ichabod felt must be rather unflattering.

It turned and began to dig in the scorched earth until there was a hole large enough for Crane to pass though. In this pit he could see daylight and smell moist, rotting leaves. The churchyard! Instinctively, Ichabod climbed in and felt the loose earth shift violently under his weight. Dark. Cold. Home. He rolled, sat up and shook the damp dirt off himself. The stench of the dragon was gone. Once more he found himself in the open grave in the graveyard, the morning sun peeking over the Church steeple. The passage below him refilled and shut out the other world.

Crane brushed clumps of earth from his coat, then clambered out of the grave. He stood and marveled that his fingers were no longer broken, though his boot was still ruined. Awestruck, he ambled into the nearly empty church to offer a sincere prayer of thanks, light a candle and vow before God never to eat squirrel meat again.

THE ARCHIVES

After his prayers, despite it still being the Sabbath and having being severely molested by a dragon, Crane walked due north seeking answers to his many questions. As he stepped over the dislodged headstone that bore his wife's name, he remembered something. The Green Dragon. The same name as the tavern they planned revolution in. A public house owned by… freemasons.

Another thread?

He stopped to buy a pumpkin latte (they _were_ quite addictive) and some thick oatmeal cookies he found familiar and soothing. Food and sleep. Two things a soldier never took for granted. One eye on the compass, he walked north to familiar territory. The police station and the Archive were due north of the headstone. If the Eye had wanted him to find the archive, he already had. Was there something else? He kept walking, but nothing he saw leaped out at him as significant. He returned to the archive.

Well, apparently that was one question answered. But then why would Katrina send the dream? Something to do with the dragon's attack and the squirrel's resurrection? More queer mysteries.

As the morning's research pressed on, Ichabod's head began to hurt trying to process so much information. The internet machine really contained far too much information, though it did have speed as an advantage.

Washington's map did not indicate any icons to match the Eye of Providence. The Google maps did not indicate anything else that might be relevant due north of the cemetery. He looked at his ravaged boot, proof that the green dragon had been real enough.

He tried another tack. 'Follow the money', the Lieutenant advised him.

The Hessians had been in the employ of the British, ostensibly for money, but Crane had learned that far more was at stake. Washington's war within a war. He sought a name. What British officer had pressed King George to hire the Hessians in the first place? No record was easily found. He tried seeking financial records in the Archives' books, but the details were murky.

He gave up and searched out leylines online, but found none near Sleepy Hollow. He considered abandoning the internet all together. Perhaps this technology simply was not reliable. Even the security cameras that recorded Officer Andy Dunn's murder by Moloch had been deceived into showing a suicide.

His phone beeped at him. "LOW BATTERY' He dutifully plugged it into the outlet as Miss Mill's had shown him. Much of this new technology did fascinate him. The internet machine told him the outlet was connected to a wire. The wire connected to the street poles outdoors and hence to the electrical generating stations. He knew about electricity. Franklin, he recalled, would never shut up about it, even at dinner parties with dozens of pretty women. The cell phone battery stored the power but had to be refilled, like a waterskin. Benjamin would have been in fits of delight figuring out all the details.

Power. He reasoned that 'magic' required a source of power, just as technology – which seemed so magical - did. If witches were preparing for battle in Sleepy Hollow, they would need a source of power. Traditionally they would seek out leylines. Perhaps the lack of one was the reason Sleepy Hollow had been chosen.

Magical objects, like Solomon's book. Their enemies would have to fight with items saturated with power, like machines with battery packs. Destroying such objects would undermine their power, like when the Lieutenant burned Solomon's Key.

Burning.

There it was again. He thought about the grey squirrel, whose bones he had burned, whose roasted flesh he had eaten. Fire. Earth. Air and Water. Good and Evil. Angel and Demons.

He thought of chess. Kings, Queens, Bishops, Knights, Pawns – all to be sacrificed for an end game. He felt like a pawn in a great big game of chess. He was going to be sacrificed. Again. He could feel Death approaching. Whatever else he must defeat the Horseman and free Katrina.

Did Lt. Mills play chess? he wondered.

His stomach grumbled. It was the supper hour. He ignored it and googled "Two witnesses" and found a reference.

**_From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia_**

**_The two witnesses are two of God's prophets who are seen in a vision by John of Patmos, who appear during the Second woe in the Book of Revelation 11:1-14._**

**_John is told that the court of God's temple would be trampled on by the nations for 42 months. During that period for 1,260 days (or 42 months, or 3½ years), two witnesses would be granted authority to prophesy. They are described as two olive trees and two lampstands who stand before the Lord of the earth. They are able to devour their enemies with fire that flows out of their mouths. They also have power over the sky and waters, and are able to strike the earth with plague. After their testimony, the Beast overcomes the two witnesses and kills them. _**

Crane stopped reading, shut the machine off, retrieved his cell phone and left the archive to walk home. His ravaged boot irritated his foot and he forced himself to think on more practical matters. He needed a horse, he thought, but no one used them these days, except for the murderous Hessian. A car was too costly. He watched people speed by on wheeled shoes, or thin flat boards with wheels or the ugly contraptions Miss Mill's called 'bikes'. Were they costly? He wondered if his fees might cover the cost of new boots and a bike machine. He paused by a small used motorcycle dealership to gaze at the machine that appeared to be very powerful bike. He liked one he saw.

The words_ Triumph_ and _Shadow_ were emblazoned on it. Black and white and silver. He walked around it, appreciating the look of it. Less cumbersome than a car, and more like a horse. He decided that he wanted one.

First things first, he decided. Right now he needed a good bootmaker.

There was a beep behind him as Abbie pulled over. He got into her car, inhaling the enticing scent of something familiar. She waggled her eyebrows."Fried chicken and wedgies. Hungry?"

"I confess that I am exceeding ravenous."

"Well, give the squirrels a break and let's talk shop over a proper lunch."

"Strange you should mention that."

TO BE CONTINUED


	6. Chapter 6

**_Nov. 5/13: NOTE to readers: I have revised certain initial plot points since recent developments in Season 1: Episode 6. Chapters 1-5 have been slightly changed to keep with Canon._**

**_IE: Since Ichabod is clearly a Mason, I have tweaked it to reflect that he is withholding his status as a Mason from Abbie and Capt. Irving until this story's events catch up with Canon._**

Chapter Six

_"If you know the enemy and know yourself, your victory will not stand in doubt; if you know Heaven and know Earth, you may make your victory complete."  
_― Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_

LT. MILL'S CAR

Ichabod explained his morning's adventures. Abbie shook her head, appalled that he had been attacked by a dragon in the churchyard and no one had noticed, except for a belated call about the vandalism of a headstone.

"So the same squirrel which nearly killed you, and that you hunted down and ate, then fought off a dragon to save your sorry ass?" Lt. Mills gnawed a chicken leg clean, then tossed it out the car window. "Crane, that is surreal."

"Indeed." Crane agreed, "and confusing. The squirrel is, I suspect, Rataoskr of Norse legend. The roots I saw were the World Tree, and the dragon is one of Nidhogg's brood, who feeds on corpses and the roots of Yggdrasil. What either of them wanted with me remains unclear."

"Ratawhat? Yggrasil what? What the hell are you talking about?"

Ichabod licked the grease from his fingers, belated noticing his fingernails were filthywith dirt from the graveyard. "Ragnarok," he explained. "It is a Viking legend, told before their assimilation into Christendom. It also speaks of the last days, albeit in a radically different way from Washington's bible. Every culture has some historical variation on the Apocalypse. All are different except for the recurring theme that there_ is_ an end of days in some form. In some tales there is a rebirth of the world and all is good. But in some legends evil eventually prevails."

"Who wins this time?" Abbie asked, slapping his dirty hand away from the last piece of chicken.

"That," Ichabod gallantly reached for a potato wedge instead, "may be up to us."

THE CABIN

Once more, Ichabod crawled between the smoke-scented covers to sleep. His hands, freshly scrubbed and scented with crushed lemon balm, pulled the blanket over him. He lay back in the darkness, thinking of the first days after he had met Katrina. He felt he had known this willful, plain-garbed woman for a lifetime after two encounters in which his character had not been well presented and one hurried and strange conversation in the woods.

_"You are a good man."_

From the moment he first saw her, he felt the sensation of an echo of a deep instinctual understanding. He knew her. How? Her name was unfamiliar, yet her face was not. Her voice, her words, her strength, her confidence bearing, her moral steadfastness, her bravery. He knew her. Better than he knew himself. He wracked his faultless memories for a connection, but failed to find it.

Women. Generally, Crane avoided them. Especially back in England. Before sailing for the colonies, Crane visited brothels in Oxford. A whore's company was less complicated. He did not attempt pursue young eligible ladies at country balls or in London. His life with an abusive, overbearing father did not allow for that. Why expose any girl that took his fancy to such horrors?

Despite polite society constantly pressuring its nobles to marry, Ichabod demurred. Even widows were expected to wed again within 7 years, according to law. As aristocracy he had been expected marry well and produce children since his balls dropped at age 14. Before setting off to the Colonies, his father all but demanded it, throwing women's miniatures at him like sweetmeats.

"Just choose one, boy, or I will choose for you!"

Yet, in this matter, Ichabod steadfastly refused to bend to his father's will. Since joining the Military, he had become too much of a man now for his father to force the issue with his fists. Ichabod knew his father wanted a grandson to produce heir to bully and torment during his son's absence, especially since there was a fair possibility Ichabod might die during military service.

Once Ichabod received his orders to sail to join his regiment in America, he experienced the worst beating he ever received from his father. Furious at his son's reticence to marry, Lord Crane secretly had set up a match with one of Ichabod's wealthier, horse-faced female cousins. The Banns had been posted without his son's his knowledge. On the day of his unexpected wedding, Ichabod calmly refused to go to the church. His father, apoplectic with rage, threatened him with disinheritance. His son welcomed release from his duties as the Crane heir.

Finally, the elder Crane beat his son with a stout, oaken walking stick. Ichabod managed to wrest it from him and fling it into the massive fireplace. His father glared at him, red-eyed and demonic, demanding to know if his son was _unnatural._ "Another Edward the Second, are you? They kill Kings for such foulness in this country, boy!"

Through a bleeding mouth, Ichabod could only laugh. He did not allow himself to love anyone or anything after his mother's death. His father would only kill it or use such love to bend Ichabod to his will.

Two days later Ichabod was on a boat to the New World, jesting to concerned comrades his bruises were the result of a tavern fight.

Still, the pressure to marry was not so easily evaded, however. In the colonies, both his English commander, and later Washington, encouraged officers to consider matches to eligible ladies. Lord Crane certainly wouldn't have enjoyed their choices. Only the highest and most flawless pedigree would have suited Ichabod's "noble" father.

On the other hand, Ben Franklin used to wink at Crane and wax in rakish enthusiasm for 'horses that had already been trained and ridden'. "Widows!" he whispered lustily. "always know a few tricks."

Their enthusiasm for matrimony mattered little. Until one day, while interrogating a suspected traitor, Ichabod met his destiny in the form of a simple Quaker woman, with lush, dark red hair and a will as stronger than his father's walking stick.

The shock of witnessing a demon revealed in the form of his British commander blurred as he flung the red coat into a ditch. Pain. Blood. Freedom. Purpose.

With a deep breath his fell into her strong arms. "Ordo ad chaos" Finally. At peace.

Katrina.

As a Quaker, Katrina had been unimpressed by his lineage or his uniform, unlike the greener girls of his acquaintance. His life had been filled with the company of flighty chits and their scheming mothers, dazzled by a smart red coat or ambitions or being the lady of the Crane's manors back in England. When the wedding banns were finally posted with Ichabod's enthusiasm, Washington heartily approved. Her just Quaker ideals and Washington's Masonic brotherhood wove themselves into Ichabod's life, providing a fresh, clean path, completely free from his father's influence.

As Ichabod reflected on all this, he flipped restlessly on the cabin modern mattress. Too bloody soft. He missed the yielding stuffed mattress of his old homestead, and the creak of the hard, rope bed. He had been so pleased to make it for her. She liked to keep things simple.

Sleep eluded, and he flipped again. He thought he had known Katrina. She seemed so guileless, so ageless, even when she had seduced him the week before their marriage by the banks of the Hudson. Her full red lips sweetly crushed any resistance he might have felt, which admittedly, he did not.

Afterwards, they curled against a tree trunk, simply breathing in the scent of each other. Lemon balm, love sweat and sated lust mingled with the tang of the earth beneath them by the chill waters as the cool fall breeze ruffling her loosened hair. There was also fire of a sort. The hot unrelenting flame of passion they had unleashed within each other. A passion years of marriage did not diminish. Each day it burned hot, strong and pure.

For Katrina he would fight Death. Fight and defeat.

But how?

He heard the echo of Miss Mill's voice in the dark. _'As Witnesses we have power.'_

**_'They are able to devour their enemies with _****fire****_ that flows out of their mouths. They also have power over the sky and waters, and are able to strike the earth with plague.'_**

Fire. It always came back to fire.

Crane turned his face into the squashy pillow. He must solve this puzzle. He must find a way though time, space and death to get his love back. At the very least he must free her trapped spirit and give her trapped and tormented soul blessed peace.

Better still, if there was a way that did not corrupt her flesh, he wanted Katrina back hale and whole, the scent of lemon balm in her hair.

A weakness, no doubt, that his enemies would seek to exploit.

LIBRARY

The next morning Lt. Mill's left a note on her laptop that explained she was following up some leads and would be back by noon. He had been handed another note from Wendy the Receptionist, with a message to call Miss Myrna from the library. Ichabod walked over instead, pausing at a shoe shop to admire some sturdy leather boots. They were shorter than he liked, but plain. He also noted the exorbitant price.

Myrna waved at him from behind the desk, through a cluster of chattering children. Crane waited patiently for the younglings to leave as Myrna waved a sheaf of papers at him triumphantly. "I found out a few more details. Not much, but enough info for you to get started with a proper genealogist."

"Miss Myrna, you delight me with your intrepid research capabilities! What have you discovered?"

"Well, there was nothing on Katrina Crane past 1782, but it occurred to me that the baby must have been claimed by a close family member, so I went looking the Parish record a few years after the execution. I found a letter to a local Quaker leader from an English solicitor seeking to contact Katrina Van Tassel's parents."

Ichabod suddenly felt sick. "An English solicitor?"

She proudly handed the papers to him. "Yes. Hired by a Lord Crane in 1783. So then this solicitor showed up unexpectedly around 1785 and took the boy back to England – kidnapped him really. Eventually, this Lord Crane made young William Crane his legal heir. I stopped looking after that. You might try to figure out the rest of -"

A tear hit the white printed pages held in his shaking hand. Then another. _He had a son?_ Ichabod could not speak.

"Oh!" Myrna fussed with a Kleenex box and pulled several sheets out. "I had no idea this would upset you."

"No, it's q-quite alright. I am f-fine. Thank you so much, Miss Myrna. I - please excuse me."

ARCHIVES

He held the fistful of printed pages so tightly his knuckles popped.

_No. No. NO! God in heaven WHY?_ He felt his heart shatter for a boy he had never known and never would. He wept, both furious and agonized at the certain knowledge of his father's ceaseless torment. He wept because he had not been there to stop it. It was done. Over. His sweet boy was already dust in the Crane family tomb and Ichabod was helpless to change that tortured past.

He read it each paper methodically, knowing his fevered brain would imprint it all in a final, unforgettable horror that could not be removed from his memory except by death.

Lt. Mills found him sobbing in one of the leather chairs, unable to speak and unwilling to explain. She finally gave up asking and just held him in her arms. Ichabod clung to her, shaking, moaning and weeping uncontrollably until exhaustion overtook him.

THE CABIN

She drove Ichabod home and set his listless frame on the sofa. She shivered both from the cold and at his vacant stare. The place was freezing. She turned on the oil heater, setting it automatically to 72 degrees so Ichabod would not freeze to death in the night. She lit a small blaze in the fireplace as well.

The papers were still clenched in his hands and he refused to release them. In silence she poured him a large glass of brandy. He drank it down too hastily, and the fiery amber liquid dripped into his beard to mingle with the salty residue of his tears.

"I had a son." he finally whispered. "My father's lawyer essentially stole him from my wife's relations, and took him back to that English hellhole. His name was William." He reached out for the brandy bottle.

"Crane…" Lt. Mill's hesitated, then gave it to him.

"Lieutenant. I need to be alone for a while."

"Crane, you need to eat something if you plan to drink all that."

Crane bristled. "I need to mourn, Lt Mills. My father was a monster. You have no idea what he must have done to that boy." Tears began to freely flow again. "My mother tried to intervene for me once. He beat her half to death. She died soon afterwards trying to give birth to my brother." Ichabod laughed grimly. "He blamed me. For a long time I did too. After her death there was no one to stop him."

"I am sorry you had to go through that," Lt. Mills whispered.

"Not as sorry as I am." Ichabod popped the cork with his thumb and began to drink.

**_To be continued._**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

_And you doctors, who more executions have done _

_With powder and potion and bolus and pill _

_Than a hangman with noose, or soldier with gun _

- The American Vicar of Bray

THE CABIN

Abbie wracked her brain to find the right words. She pried the pages from Crane's fist and skimmed their contents. "Where did exactly you get this information?"

"A credible source." Crane licked stray drops of liquor from the corner of his mouth. "A librarian of recent acquaintance."

"So you didn't find this out yourself?"

"No. What of it?" He took another long pull from the brandy bottle.

Mills forced herself to laugh. "Crane, this digital info could easily be complete bullshit. You don't know that all this is true. You don't even know for sure if Katrina really had a baby. She might have been lying to the court to buy time and arrange rescue."

Ichabod put the bottle down to consider this. "You think I am being manipulated? That agents of Moloch or the Hessians are feeding me lies to undermine my resolve?"

"Well duh! Of course, someone is messing with you. Isn't part of war to simply psych your enemy out?" She bit back her emotions and kept to reason. "We need to verify all this, and even if it does turn out to be true, think about something. How old would your dad have been at the time? Sixty? Older? He might not have lived long enough to mess up your boy's life. The kid could have been a tot, raised by nannies, right?"

Ichabod sat in silence for a few moments, then sighed. "You are wise beyond your years, Lt. Mills. I will verify my family history first. Perhaps the situation was not as awful as I fear." He put the bottle down.

"Good!" She exhaled loudly in relief. She fetched a cold washcloth and handed it to him. "Here You need get your head back in the End of Days game. Our enemies are looking for weak spots. Your dad is one. Keep your secrets, Crane."

"It was never a secret." Ichabod wiped his face clean of salt tears and brandy." Everyone was aware I loathed my father. With an intense, burning passion that frightened even the most cold-hearted veteran."

Burning. Again.

"I can relate." Mills said.

Ichabod looked at her, agast. "I sincerely hope not."

"Another story. Another day." Lt. Mill's took the cloth from him and tossed it in a laundry hamper. She stared at his mangled boot. "If you are feeling up to it, we need to get you some new boots. Might as well learn how to use that bank card."

"We also need to investigate this burn unit in Valhalla." He resolutely replaced the brandy bottle on a table and poked at the dying fire. "and look into the … Masonic 'angle' you have been investigating."

"Fine," Mills understood how quickly he could shut down his emotions. She could too. One got a lot of practice doing that with an abusive father. "But we go shopping first. You need to strt to update that look of yours now that you have some coin. Plus, you still owe me fifty bucks."

"I always pay my debts, Miss Mills." Ichabod said stiffly. "After you are repaid, with suitable interest, and the boots are commissioned, I will require a motorcycle machine so I am not constantly relying on you for transport."

"You require a what?"

"Lieutenant, I cannot be galloping around on a horse if the rest of society uses these confounded, inescapable carriages. A motorized cycle will suit me better, and a used one is far less costly than a car."

"Crane, have you ever been on a Harley in winter? You will be dead of pneumonia in a matter of days, even if you wear an insulated pair of assless chaps."

"WHY is the modern vernacular so preoccupied with people buttocks?"

"No one rides a motorbike in winter, Crane."

"Lieutenant, I spent nearly the entire winter of '77 in Valley Forge on horseback, and I have observed that I am used to dealing with extreme temperatures far more than you are."

"We'll talk about the motorcycle -" the lieutenant raised her palms at him, "once you've taken a safety course, gone for a test drive and don't get me started on the required licenses and insurance, because –"

"So you are going to be my carriage driver for the next seven years?"

"Fine." Lt. Mill's clenched her teeth. "I'll talk to the captain."

Ichabod scooped warm ashes over the embers of the fire. "Why is it that whenever you say 'Fine" you mean anything but that?"

TOWN OF VALHALLA

"What is it you are looking for, anyway?"

Ichabod wriggled his toes in his new boots. They were too warm, but the soles were very sturdy. He needed to rub bear fat into the leather to make them more malleable, but the cobbler had only stared at him and mentioned someone disagreeable named Peta.

"I have been listening to squirrel's chatter, Lieutenant. What is this Valhalla known for, besides the hospital for burned children?"

"Mostly Ziegfeld girls, Soupy Sales and the dam."

"What's a Ziegfeld?"

Mill's laughed as she turned onto an off-ramp. "Nothing to do with the end days. The dam is kind of neat if you are into engineering."

Dam. Water. The enemy of fire. "Take me to the dam."

There was a long, lovely pool of still water next to the dam, but due to the cold, few others beside himself and Miss Mills were there. "Water." Crane observed. "And lots of it."

"Yes." She frowned, stuffing her hands into her pockets to warm them. "But shouldn't we be looking at the hospital? Preferably from the warmth of an SUV."

Ichabod began to think aloud. "Moloch needs burnt sacrifices. Centuries ago children were openly sacrificed to him, before then the worship of this demon fell out of favor or went underground. In later centuries, folk ostensibly preaching the word of God, burned heretics and witches. However, you noted that fact yourself. Witches were burned in Sleepy Hollow only _after_ the Hessian forces arrived to fight for the British. Previously, witches in Salem were hanged, not burned. But then Colonies revolted and things changed. The Hessians arrived, paid by the British to quell to colonies and take control to pave the path for the Horsemen. Lt. Mills shrugged, "Europeans, especially Germans, burned a lot of witches in the middle ages."

"Exactly, but logic and reason returned to Sleepy Hollow after the Horseman of Death was contained, and so the public burnings stopped."

Mill's began to see where he was going. "So, you think Moloch's later followers relied on sacrifices disguised as car accidents or house fires or kids screwing around with fireworks after the horseman was destroyed?"

"Yes. My theory is burn victims, especially children, somehow provide Moloch with a certain sort of energy. There are no leylines around here, so known deaths by fire, and perhaps the disappearances your sheriff was investigating, may be this demon's source of power."

"And Valhalla's burn hospital?"

"Was established to either accommodate this need or combat it. If a burn victim does not die, it stands to reason that Moloch does not get his power."

"So the Mason's who fund this place are the good guys?"

"Possibly. Obviously burning witches is too dramatic and attracts attention." Ichabod ran his fingers through his hair, dislodging the string that tied it back. "So a sacrificial death by "accidental" fire would not be so obvious in a hospital where so many burn patients seek help. You said they treat hundreds every year."

"So the Masons _are_ the bad guys?"

"Possibly."

"Crane!"

"Lieutenant, there are obviously good Masons and those who may be allied with dark forces, just as Katrina said there is a good coven and an evil one at work in the Hollow. Also, the names are important. Why Sleepy Hollow? Why Valhalla?"

"I dunno!" Lt. Mills exclaimed. "This place is just that! Sleepy, or it was until recently. Slow-paced. Dull. Boring, Quiet. Time drags its ass in Sleepy Hollow."

Ichabod seized on that. "Yes! Time! What if Sleepy Hollow is a gateway! A doorway to other times and places … and interesting too that Valhalla is nearby! Perhaps it also is a gateway to the warrior heaven for those who die fighting in the final battle of Ragnarok."

"Well, it's no secret the Vikings were messing around here long before Columbus and the Mayflower arrived. So, what are you suggesting, Crane?"

Ichabod clasped his hands together, his mouth open halfway. "I don't know yet," he admitted sheepishly.

"Great." Lt. Mill's rubbed her eyes. "My report to Captain Irving is going set a watermark."

"Supper?" suggested Ichabod. He cheekily waved his bank card at her. "I'll buy."

THE PUB

Ichabod ordered his usual Steak and Kidney pie with cider. In the corner of the tavern two paunchy, weathered musicians sang and played spritely music on a fiddle and another elaborately stringed instrument which Ichabod was unfamiliar with. The baritone was bald with a bushy brown beard, but no moustache. His brother sported more and fairer hair but had a less impressive voice.

Abbie nibbled on a large salad made with greens, nuts and cheese as she made notes on her phone. "I will dig up more on the coroner who signed off on the burned bodies."

"Mmm." Crane sat back in his chair, eyes closed and cider in hand, listening intently to the music.

Lt. Mills resisted the urge to fling a grape tomato at his head. It had been an emotional day. She had never seen him collapse into despair before this morning. "And tomorrow you are going to check out your family tree and put your mind at rest, right?"

"Yes." Ichabod pointedly rested a finger on his lips. Mills rolled her eyes and finished her salad. "Please stop making me listen to this best of the 1750's crap."

"But this music is so lovely. How can you not enjoy this?"

"I am more an Ella Fitzgerald or Beyonce girl, and no - do not ask me what a Beyonce is." She got up. "I am going home. I have laundry to do and my PVR'd shows to watch. You buy dinner and square dance all you please. Call a cab. Number is in your phone. Stay away from motorized bikes. Don't forget I am taking you to a baseball game tomorrow. Good night."

Ichabod raised his glass at her. "Goodnight, Lieutenant."

After she left, to Ichabod's delight, the two musicians began to sing a tune he knew: Tears came freely to his eyes as he softly sang along.

_Next morning before judge and jury _

_For a trial I had to appear _

_And the judge, he said, "You young fellows... _

_The case against you is quite clear _

_And seven long years is your sentence _

_You're going to Van Dieman's Land _

_Far away from your friends and relations _

_To follow the black velvet band." _

_Her eyes they sparkled like diamonds…_

His voice faltered and he stopped singing, once again content to listen only. He was no singer of songs. It hurt too much. His mother used to sing to him to sleep. How old had he been when she died? Six? Seven? The same age his son had been sentenced to live under Lord Crane's roof. He scowled. His damnable father had probably lived well into his nineties just to spite him. He lost himself in the music, a small mental island of refuge before further tribulations.

The CABIN

Hours later the two men packed up their instruments, and as the waitress took Ichabod's card for payment, he heartily complimented them on their fine voices. Dull with cider, he did not call a cab, but walked home in the dark to sober up. He was rightly wary of the night – the Horseman's preferred time - yet as he strolled up the dirt road to the cabin another old tune came into his head.

_Here's a health to the wee lass _

_That I love her so well _

_For style and for beauty _

_There's none can excel _

_There's a smile on her countenance _

_As she sits upon my knee _

_There is no man in this wide world _

_As happy as me. _

Katrina.

If Moloch could pass between worlds, then somehow - someway, so could he. He reached into his pocket for the cabin's key and fumbled with the fishing line.

Snare. Squirrel. A memory that seemed more like a dream stirred. The churchyard. Rataoskr! His squirrel familiar could make a door for him! Couldn't he? He could ask. But how did one summon the messenger squirrel of the World Tree? He would need to find a master of Viking lore and old magic.

In Sleepy Hollow?

Tricky.

The cabin was warm. So much so that he did not bother to light the fire again, though the few embers he banked still burned. He was tired but not enough to go straight to sleep. He pulled a book at random from the shelf. A large colorful tome. He peered at the cover in the dim light. "Reader's Digest. History's most dramatic events… and how they changed the world." A history book! He thumbed through it, then turned on a brighter light and began to read methodically, committing it all to memory.

By daybreak, he awoke. Blearily he gazed at the book in his hands. Before he dropped off, he reached the summary of the German Blitz in 1942. He managed to make coffee and bathe, which refreshed him. He marked the page and put the history book away. So much information took time to process and make any relevant connections. He remembered all that he had read, but was what he read important? Assessing the importance of all this information in the grand scheme was another thing entirely. Often the secret was not to think on things too much. Inspiration was like that.

Lt. Mill's arrived mid-morning, out of her uniform but still genially ordering him around."First breakfast, a bit of family research, lunch and then we'll hit the game this afternoon. You are going to love baseball."

"Is it anything like cricket?"

"No."

"Alas." Baseball sounded like just the thing to distract him while he considered the next course of action.

CEMETERY

He strolled to Katrina's 'grave' after the game, reflecting on the morning's work. His son. Only the most vaguest of references had remained. Lt. Mills had been intrigued. So few mentions of young William Crane as to be non-existent. Like the world had scrubbed Ichabod's son and heir from the history books.

The church had replaced Katrina's headstone to its proper place. It seemed remarkable that it was only slightly marred by the dragon's claws. He wondered why she could not simply state the truth and be plain?

Northward stared The Eye of Providence towards the Archives? Perhaps there was still something to be learned in the secret tunnels beneath. He would have to-

A sharp pain. His neck! Ichabod's senses quickly dulled and blurred. A shadow. A man with a bag. Ichabod felt himself topple over.

What fresh hell was this?

END OF PART ONE

**_To be continued_**


End file.
